


Sound And Fury Signifying par'Mach

by EldritchTribble



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Klingon headcanons gone wild, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor canon divergence, Multi, Solid!Odo, cultural misunderstanding as tragicomedy: the fic, in which worf and odo develop mutually beneficial cunning plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchTribble/pseuds/EldritchTribble
Summary: Following Odo’s exile from the Great Link, Worf employs a tried-and-true method to get the constable back on his feet. It does not go quite as planned. An alternate plotline of sorts for 5x03: Looking For par’Mach In All The Wrong Places.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lion_owl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lion_owl/gifts).



The scene that confronted Worf as he entered Quark’s bar came dangerously close to putting him off his appetite. Ensconced in a booth on the far side of the establishment, that incorrigible Ferengi was attempting to coax nameless favors from the matron of the house of Grilka. Quark indeed had spectacular taste in prospective partners - Worf would give him that - but the man hardly knew his place. Not for the first time, Worf bristled at the fact that the station’s chief of security so blithely allowed that honorless _p’tak_ to remain at large. To Worf, Quark’s only redeeming quality was the fact that he could fix an acceptable, if grudging, prune juice. He made a mental note to confront Odo about this when next they met.

He did not have long to wait. Averting his attention from the exchange of tawdry witticisms between Quark and Grilka, he found that Odo was ambling rigidly up to the counter behind him. The constable in question winced as he held his unaccustomed spine in ungainly subservience. Odo acknowledged Worf with a minute inclination of his head, then took a seat on the only available barstool: the one directly to Morn’s right, as it so happened.

“I’m not in a talkative mood, Morn, so kindly leave me be,” groused Odo, just loud enough over the hubbub for Worf to hear him. Well, so much for that avenue of conversation. Worf did not begrudge Odo his reticence in the slightest: it certainly took _him_ a great enough deal of cajoling to confide in others, even about the most mundane matters. Moreover, he reflected, events in Odo’s life of late would have sealed even the Lurian’s lips shut. He decided to leave well enough alone for the time being; besides, a Klingon noblewoman’s honor was at stake not five paces from where he was standing. She and Quark were beginning to act worryingly forward with one another – indeed, she had gone so far as to permit him to rest his hand on her thigh. _The indignity_ , Worf fumed to himself.

He strode up to the pair, glowered down at the offending bartender and grabbed him viciously by the lapels. Quark’s deep-set eyes widened to the size of saucers as the heft of Worf’s grip lifted him bodily from the floor.

“Prune juice. Chilled. Extra large,” Worf gritted out between clenched teeth. At this, a most curious expression wormed its way across Quark’s face: some incongruous mixture of alarm, surprise, arousal and resignation. It seemed to say, “ _not what I had in mind for tonight, but it’d do in a pinch.”_ Grilka’s brow ridges skyrocketed upwards and disappeared into her cascading thicket of hair.

“Sorry, Worf – didn’t see you back there. I’ll get that for you right away,” assured Quark in a placating manner. Purely as a display of helplessness, he squirmed fitfully in Worf’s unyielding grasp. With a long-suffering sigh, Worf dumped the Ferengi unceremoniously back onto solid ground. Quark gave his waistcoat an affronted tug before turning to face his companion.

“Won’t be a minute, Grilka, my dear!” he lilted, waving daintily at her as he strode back toward the counter. She, in turn, mimicked the wave with a fond leer.

“Tend to your customers, Quark!” Grilka called out to his retreating back, her gaze riveted on the bartender until he disappeared around the corner. She soon met Worf’s stare levelly. Some acknowledgment of what he considered a favor was in order, but Grilka seemed reluctant to offer ought but the most cursory of remarks.

“The son of Mogh has saved me some trouble this day,” she finally remarked, flashing a wry smile. The implication was not lost on Worf. Shuddering internally at the thought of an illustrious Klingon matron flinging a hapless Ferengi around, he nonetheless managed a slight bow and stalked away from her. Prune juice might not be a strong enough antidote for what he had just witnessed.

Upon returning to the counter and being presented with his drink – Quark had yet again skimped on the ice, the cheapskate – Worf eased himself into a newly vacated barstool. Peering around the throng of patrons, he noticed that Odo was staring wordlessly into a half-empty glass. Morn, to his credit, was leaving him alone as requested…but the desolation and despair etched so deeply onto Odo’s solid frame struck a fundamental, profound chord within Worf. He had to do something.

An idea began to percolate: elaborating it to himself, he motioned Quark over.

“I wish to purchase a drink for the constable. What is his usual, since…?” Worf and Quark shared a significant glance. Neither of them wished to broach the subject of Odo’s recent exile, not now, not while it was still so fresh.

“I’ll go get that awful wine from the back,” the bartender muttered gravely. “Odo doesn’t know any better anyway; everything’s new for him.” Quark’s ensuing smile was oddly bittersweet. Worf cast a withering look at the shameless display of avarice.

“Kvass, then. _Not_ synthetic,” he replied decisively. His family back in Minsk had been fond enough of it, so he reasoned that it had to be much less objectionable than whatever Quark was force-feeding the poor ingénu. “Profiting off ignorance is the height of dishonor – not to mention very rude,” he added from atop the moral high ground. Quark, for his part, was having none of Worf’s posturing.

“Says the irritating oaf who just sabotaged my chances with a glorious fe-male – and not for the first time, I might add.” The bartender poured a disapproving mug of kvass at the lobe-nope sitting across from him.

“You did not need any of my help,” Worf shot back.

“Oh yeah?” Quark propped himself on a pair of pointy elbows and leaned aggressively toward Worf, steepling his gnarled fingers as he narrowed his eyes. “If I’m such a hopeless case, then why not coach me instead? Just what have you got to lose? Tumek said you’re not allowed to court her yourself, but come on, would it hurt you to live a little? Vicariously, I mean, since that’s the only way you seem to be capable of doing so.”

Defensively, Worf rolled his eyes. “You have far too much to learn,” he accused. “I could never teach you in the limited time she has on the station.” Shooting one last scowl at the miscreant, he collected his two beverages and left to find Odo. Unsurprisingly, the constable had not moved as much as a muscle in the handful of minutes that Worf had spent grappling verbally with Quark.

“I do not understand why you allow the Ferengi to run amok as he does,” said Worf, by way of greeting. He set the mug down next to the glass Odo was clutching; the bubbles in the kvass easily outpaced those in the sparkling wine. For a moment, Odo looked thoroughly befuddled as he regarded the beverage and then Worf, attempting to connect one to another with a few mental calculations. Worf met the scrutiny with what he hoped was an encouraging nod; Odo seemed not to notice.

“I have my reasons, which do not concern you,” replied Odo at last, retreating back into himself as he curled his fingers around the proffered mug. Worf wondered if he should have instead opened with some generic pleasantry or other.

“Matters of station security concern me, Constable. That right there –“ he pointed to Quark and Grilka canoodling away at the counter –  “is unacceptable. Will you stand idly by and watch as a _barkeep_ besmirches her honor?”

“How fascinating,” Odo mused, craning his neck to bypass the intervening crowd. Worf stiffened at his choice of words. It soon became apparent that Odo had not been talking solely about the station’s incongruous new romance, however – his steely gaze met Worf’s again as he continued, this time with an undercurrent of umbrage.

“Yes, truly fascinating - the moment you’re outmaneuvered on the romantic front, you thrust blame onto the first available target. I assure you, Worf, while Quark’s amorous escapades are indeed disturbing in the extreme, they’ve remained fully within the confines of station law.” Odo cast another disapproving glance Quark’s way. “So far,” he muttered darkly, almost to himself.

Worf demurred. “The fact remains that a Klingon officer would have thrown him in the brig for his smuggling activities alone,” he opined emphatically. Odo, after taking an experimental pull of kvass, promptly put it back down on the counter with a faint splash.

“Are you suggesting that I do not take my duties quite as seriously as your hypothetical Klingon officer would?” growled Odo as he rose to his feet.

“Not at all,” replied Worf without conviction. “I am simply suggesting that, in your diminished state, you might have become somewhat more…forgiving than usual.” Flinching, he chanced another glimpse of Grilka, who was stroking the top of Quark’s head lovingly in full view of the rest of the bar. With a sudden outraged burst of strength, Odo gripped Worf’s forearm; Worf, for his part, felt grateful for the distraction.

“Let me make one thing very clear to you, Lieutenant,” Odo rumbled menacingly, shaking Worf’s arm for emphasis, “prioritizing enforcement does not a poor chief of security make.”

“Explain,” countered Worf with complete calm as he sipped his prune juice. Taken aback at Worf’s audacity, the constable released his vise-grip and eyed him searchingly, ascertaining his motives.

“You will, of course, recall the procedures Eddington put in place,” continued Odo, his tone steeped in cautious neutrality. “Arrests for trifles here, persecution of rivals there, regulations cropping up everywhere. It must have been terribly convenient for him, keeping the security office busy enough so he could go about his Maquis business free from suspicion. I’m sure that in light of that particular fiasco, you’d agree that my approach can and does function well enough…and I’d thank you to assist me in enforcing order on the station rather than second-guessing my methods at every turn.”

Worf balked at the accusation. This conversation had not quite taken the turn he had hoped for – but, then again, not many of his conversations did. It was one reason he preferred remaining on the _Defiant_ to living among colleagues.

“…You’re not alone, Worf,” murmured Odo after a very long moment. “The Great Link believed in justice in much the same way you do.”

It was the final straw for Worf: the ultimate confirmation that his plan to stoke the constable’s ire had failed. There was nothing for it but to cut his losses.

“I apologize, Odo. I am aware of the gravity of your situation.”

“You are, aren’t you.” It was not a question.

***

There was a term for Odo’s ailment on Q’onoS. Grizzled veterans who returned from campaigns as chary shades of their former selves, trusting no-one, drifting listlessly, behaving for all intents and purposes as if they had no fire left in them…the colloquial term translated as “mind-maw”. Many chose to end their own lives rather than carry on in a perceived state of outlived usefulness. The phenomenon proved common enough that, for those illustrious warlords who could not be spared to it, a ritual had been formed around bringing them back from that brink. It was called _he’junpak’t,_ from the words for energy and courage.

Traditionally, the closest friends of the warrior in question would corner their compatriot and attempt to induce righteous anger. Appeals to a wounded ego, insulting personal speculations, thinly-veiled jabs were all commonplace enough within the rite of _he’junpak’t_. Not many took to it right away; in fact, it often took a few unrelenting days of this treatment before the warrior began to throw punches. In light of this, Worf reflected that he should have foreseen a non-Klingon missing the entire point of this exercise, and reasoned that a subtler approach might work better in Odo’s case.

After a long visit to Captain Sisko, Worf already felt much better. He tapped his combadge and informed Odo that the Captain wished to see him in his office. For once, Worf had to fight to keep from grinning.

***

“Permission to speak freely.”

“Go ahead, Constable,” Sisko replied, fiddling restlessly with the baseball on his desk. His laserlike gaze seemed to bore straight through Odo.

“This is a completely unnecessary precaution. I am perfectly capable of fulfilling my duties,” protested the constable as he paced around the office, hands clasped firmly at the small of his back.

“Nobody’s arguing that point,” Sisko assured him. “You have, however, suffered a monumental loss – and I’m afraid _that_ point’s not up for debate. I simply want to give you time to come to terms with it.” At this, Odo let out a reluctant huff in acknowledgment of the captain’s observation. Sisko had not quite finished, however.

“While you’re on light duty, Lieutenant Worf can take over for you in certain key areas,” he added brightly. Odo balked at the suggestion.

“With all due respect, I do not wish for Lieutenant Worf to take over for me in certain key areas.”

“Afraid of a little healthy competition, Constable?” insinuated the captain, his expression redolent with veiled mischief.

“Sir?”

“You heard me.” The tone of Sisko’s voice became, if possible, even more opaque. If he were deadpanning, Odo reasoned, the man could clean Quark out at tongo without blinking an eye.

“Captain,” ventured Odo, “barring any objection on your part, I would request an opportunity to prove my fitness for duty before you institute such a drastic measure.”

“Granted.” Odo cocked his head in surprise: he had not expected it to be quite that easy. “You have three days before I transfer all security codes to Mr. Worf. Dismissed.”

***

At 1900 hours on the second day, Odo reclined in his chair and rubbed his tired, solid eyes. He had been perusing criminal activity reports from the entire week, and just when it would have benefited him the most to book someone, _anyone_ , there were no leads at all. Not on the station, at least: the smuggling ring whose movements he had been tracking for months had set up operations a handful of light-years away. Tilting at that particular windmill might prove an even worse blow to his reputation than failing to make any arrests that day. He sighed heavily.

What he really needed, he decided, was a petty crime. Something that might not see much enforcement under normal circumstances. Something that would justify his position on the station. He needed a hooligan and a prank.

He slapped his combadge in sudden inspiration.

“Odo to Dax. I need your help,” he muttered urgently. It had to be her. For one thing, Jadzia owed him a colossal favor: he had been the facilitator of her marriage to Lenara Kahn – as much to his own surprise as to theirs. Having observed many parallels between their struggle and those depicted in countless Bajoran novels, he had concluded that theirs was a courtship that could not be allowed to wither, and had thereby convinced Dr. Kahn to remain on the station.

There was a faint rustling, then the whir of china being returned to a replicator, then -

“I’m a little busy right now, Odo – what is it?”

“I need to make an arrest or two,” explained Odo, his voice low and tense. “Could I trouble you to create an amusing diversion worthy of a few hours in a holding cell?”

“You should know by now that flashy pranks are a specialty of mine,” Jadzia replied impishly. “Is this the favor you want to call in?”

“I suppose it is.”

Dax hemmed and hawed as Odo grew more and more restless. Eventually, she lowered her voice to a whisper and imparted cryptic instructions to the constable.

“Look for me in the ventilation shaft above Quark’s bar in two hours. Bring a clothespin.”

“Thank you, Dax,” responded Odo in relief.

“It’s the least I can do.”

***

Odo thought nothing of Quark’s absence at the time of the incident: with the lone exception of Morn, everyone with a functioning olfactory gland had cleared well out of the bar. Jadzia’s injunction now made a great deal more sense to him, and how he wished he had replicated a clothespin as per her instructions. Holding his nose with one hand, he extricated Jadzia from the ventilation shaft with the other. She was wearing a prim pair of nose pincers and a triumphant grin.

“Lenara thought I was nuts to agree to this, and she’s probably right…still, I did owe you one.”

“Not after this. Come on, I must now make a spectacle of taking you to the brig.” As he held his breath, Odo gathered Jadzia’s wrists in front of her and secured them with an ostentatious pair of handcuffs. Jadzia glanced back at Odo, suppressing a bawdy remark.

“Lead the way,” she declared instead, smirking irreverently, “for I am but a wanton criminal caught red-handed and smelling of ammonium sulfide.”

They made their way to the security office – with a jolt, Odo noticed that Worf had reorganized his collection of padds – and proceeded down to the holding cells. A curious scene greeted them as they did so.

Grilka and Worf were arguing fiercely in rapid colloquial Klingon. Most of it passed Odo’s universal translator by, but Jadzia let out a low whistle at a particularly heated turn of phrase. Moping morosely in the corner of the smallest holding cell was Quark.

In his umbrage, Odo let go of Jadzia’s wrists and stormed over to face Worf, blocking Grilka from view. Standing on tiptoe to tower over Odo, she continued her tirade.

“What is the meaning of this, Worf?!” the constable shouted. “I thought I told you to trust my methods!”

“Says the honorless _hur’q_ who has outlived his usefulness on the station!” bellowed Worf.

“Outlived my usefulness, have I? For your information, Quark’s underworld connections were helping me smoke out a notorious smuggling ring. We were making significant progress. And then _you_ had to barge in here and jeopardize all of that in your ignorance!”

“He’s right, you know,” interjected a maudlin Quark. Grilka shot one last outraged glance at Worf before bustling over to join him.

“Quiet, you!” Worf spat at Quark in reply. He turned back to face Odo, who was heaving with primal, roiling rage. It boded quite well for his recovery.

“Perhaps now would be a good time to explain the ruse,” reflected Worf, half to himself. Jadzia and Odo exchanged worried glances. Afraid that Worf had deduced the purpose behind their plot, Odo snapped back to attention in alarm.

“What ruse? What are you talking about?” he hedged.

“Your behavior ever since your people cast you out has been…worrisome. Captain Sisko and I devised a plan to undermine your authority, with the expectation that the resulting anger would bring you out of the mind-maw.”

Several puzzle-pieces that had been scattered across Odo’s thoughts now eased themselves into place. “The mind-? Do you mean to tell me that all of this was your and Captain Sisko’s idea of an _intervention?_ ” the constable asked in utter incredulity.

“I would not describe it in such terms - but in essence, you are correct.”

Odo stared at him. Now that he thought of it in those terms, Worf’s actions made complete and total sense. How far gone must he have been not to have even entertained the concept as a possibility?  Far enough to draft an innocent science officer into what he now recognized as a petty ego-driven competition, at least.

Apologetically, he turned to face Jadzia, who jangled her manacles meaningfully at him.

“You’re free to go,” sighed Odo, unlocking Jadzia’s handcuffs in defeat. She patted him on the shoulder in reassurance before taking her leave. Worf eyed the exchange doubtfully – had this been a ruse, in turn, to which he had not been privy?

As Odo sidled up to his colleague, a crafty expression suffused his sculpted features. It served to answer the question Worf was pondering, as well as to bring up a host of new ones.

“What about that time when you bought me a drink, then? Was that before or after devising this little scheme with the Captain?” The constable was a bit too close and his voice a bit too gravelly for Worf’s comfort. Worf straightened his spine and fixed his gaze at a point on the wall directly in front of him.

“Does a gallant warrior need a reason to buy a distressed constable a drink?” he asked, rhetorically, before he could stop himself.

“I…suppose not.”

Their eyes met, offering a wealth of understanding in a glance.

Worf stiffened, if possible, even more. “Forgive me. I am clumsy with pleasantries,” he declared. They both knew that he was not referring back to the incident at the bar.

“As am I,” rumbled Odo in reply. “In fact, I propose that we skip them entirely.”

“…Agreed.”

Quark and Grilka looked on with glee as the pair embraced, tentatively at first, then with increasing vim. At the utter limits of even Quark’s prodigious hearing, Grilka uttered a muted exclamation.

_“Qapla’!”_


End file.
